Game On
by wintereden
Summary: Sam didn't spend his years at Stanford training. Dean's attempts to bring him back into the swing of things leave a lot to be desired.


Cheat, Win.

Sam didn't spend his years at Stanford training. Dean's attempts to bring him into the swing of things leave a lot to be desired.

Watch out for the language. Sam's mind might be a great deal safer than his father's and brother's, but he is still a Winchester.

For those of you who are interested, House of Mirrors will be updated with in the next day or so, honest.

* * *

The first time it happened, Dean broke Sam's nose.

"Dude," he yelped, almost as pained as his hunched over brother. "Duck! What happened to the duck? The dodge and weave? The block?"

Sam hissed nasally and tried to stem the flow of blood without wincing.

A lot could happen in four years. He had met Jess, got a life, lost Jess…

…and apparently forgotten what a wicked left hook his brother possessed. Dean slapped his hands away and took Sam's face in his own. The older hunter's smile was shaky and worried, but he pressed his thumbs against either side of Sam's nose and _twisted._

"Ow, fuck!" Sam shouted. He yanked away from Dean's restrictive grasp and aimed a vicious smack at the back of his head. Dean didn't try to dodge it, and Sam felt none the better.

That was something else he had forgotten. In all his years at college, he'd sprained an ankle on the basketball court, and broken a finger in Jess' front door. He'd only been in one physical confrontation, with two assholes who'd wrongly assumed Sam to be an easy target. Two punches and that was the end of that. On record, it was his most boring fight. Life had been easy going, and Sam had honestly begun to take for granted the fact that he wasn't going to be maimed every other week. Only in the Winchester world could that possibly be considered a _bad _thing.

"Next time get your face outta the way of my fist." Dean advised sagely.

It wasn't fair. Dean had busted his nose twelve times before he'd hit his teen years. Surely there should be some disfigurement to tell of it. Obviously thinking along the same lines, the older hunter smirked. "Don't worry little brother. Chicks dig the boxer look."

"'adisic asard." Sam swore.

Dean blinked, nonplussed.

Then he laughed.

Then in a spectacular example of just _why _he was a bastard, poked Sam on the end of the nose.

Hard.

ssssss

They were playing pool when the problem arose again.

For four years Sam had managed to avoid the felt covered tables and the memories that went with them. Leaving the hunt for a better life had been one thing. Leaving Dean for a better life had been a more difficult pill to swallow, and for many years, Dean and pool-halls had been synonymous. Dean hustled in them. He got drunk in them. He got laid in them-_public lewdness is an arrest able offence, Dean. _And once he'd very nearly gotten himself sacrificed over one by a toothless yahoo trying to raise his childhood sweetheart from the dead. That had only been a week or so after Sam had caught him doing the naughty with the barmaid, and it had been tempting to leave Dean tied to the pool table.

He hadn't, but free to live his own life, Sam had avoided the halls the plague.

They were mid drive from Arkansas to Nebraska when Dean, his wallet full from a timely thrashing of the local lunchtime drunks, called Sam over for a friendly round. Winner got to drive. More importantly, winner got to pick the soundtrack.

Sam didn't so much as loose.

He was annihilated.

Dean, horrified, stared at the white ball for a good minute and then looked at Sam as if seeing a stranger. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"I am Dean's major bemusement."

Fight Club quotes. It was _that_ bad.

ssssss

The third time, Dean had almost killed him.

Or rather a shape shifter demon wearing Dean's face had almost killed him.

The way his brother had reacted, you'd have thought it was Dean who nearly died, not Sam.

In hindsight, Sam could see exactly where amusement had turned into anger, and friendly teasing to concern.

In hindsight, it was all that damn shifter's fault.

ssssss

Dean Winchester was a sadistic bastard.

Sam wanted that underlined, printed in bold, and possibly highlighted by a flashing neon border. Along with the note that if God had intended humankind to spend several hours up to their eyes in mud, he'd have given them considerably thicker skin. Either one of those points would be welcome on his tombstone.

As for Dean's? He thought something along the lines of _who said fratricide was a bad thing? _should be appropriate.

Granted, it was partly…more than partly his fault, but did Dean really have to take every word that came out of their father's mouth and follow it to the letter? Especially when those words spelled nothing but misery for the both of them?

Then again, Dean was a freak. He _enjoyed_ shit like this.

"Bastard, evil, miserable, sadistic…" After several hours, Sam had run out of original insults and simply reused the more succinct ones. Aiming a filthy hand at the wayward bangs flicking in his eyes, the youngest Winchester cast another, almost desperate, gaze around his surroundings.

Nothing but woodland. Stinking trees for miles and miles and, oh god, just wait until he got his hands on his brother.

The woods were the hollow kind, and unnaturally silent. It was the type of place where you could hear a pin drop a mile away, and so Sam was at a complete loss as to why he couldn't hear Dean.

For a brief second, he worried that perhaps his brother had been hurt. They'd been outside, in the cold and the dirt for close to six hours. It had been funny for the first two. Still, no. Dean didn't get hurt on exercises. He just liked to fuck with Sam's head.

Cursing himself, he moved out from behind the shelter of a wide ash tree and dropped to one knee with a smile.

There, nestled against dead leaves and congealed mud, was a half-concealed imprint, and a snapped twig. It was almost impossible to make out amongst the foliage, but Sam's sharp eyes had read the signs for what they were.

The first, the only, sign that someone had passed that way.

Regaining some of his flagging energy, he picked up the pace and darted between the trees. Night was slowly falling, and Sam had no desire to flounder in the dark for a man who was a good hunter in the daylight, and fucking phenomenal under the cover of darkness.

Of course, Dean was out there, sharing his misery.

Or he had better be.

No, scratch that. Dean was probably back at the motel, drinking coffee and watching Star Trek re-runs. He'd actually done that once. Years back, when he'd been drafted in last minute to play rabbit for a group of hunters who wanted to get a little training done. The exercise was supposed to be a twenty-four hour gig in the land around Bobby's place. Dean had spent less than three hours outside, doubling back and spending the rest of the day helping Sam revise for his SATs.

Bobby had kicked his ass, but their father had damn near glowed with pride.

There, in the trees, a fragment of Dean's navy blue shirt ripped against the thorny foliage. His brother had passed that way. Or he hadn't, he'd gone the other way, but wanted Sam to _think_ he'd gone that way.

Or he _had _gone that way, and knew Sam would think that it was a ploy to get him to go the other way when he had, in fact, gone the way it looked like he had.

Sadistic. Fuck.

Dean was wasted on hunting. He should have been one of those evil CIA agents who liked to lock people in small rooms and fuck with their heads until they went nuts.

No. He could do this. He just had to think like Dean, that was all.

Think like Dean.

Easy.

No problem.

Sex.

Cars.

Alcohol.

Sam…bingo!

The whole fucked up little game of soldiers was Dean's screwed up way of helping Sam out, of getting him back into the game without dangling him in front of some sharp clawed nasty. It might have be useful if his brother had pulled this stunt before the Wendigo, but needs must.

It was a training exercise. It was fabricated. It was controlled.

Dean was controlling it.

Which meant that Sam was essentially following the puppet master on whose strings he danced.

"Turn about is fair play, big brother."

It took him a few minutes to find a tree that was dense enough to put his plan into action. In the end, settled for one that was a little higher than he would have wanted, and swung up into the boughs. Climbing trees had always been something he was good at. Long legs. Long arms. He climbed whenever he could, the opposite of his brother, who liked to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

It was awkward, folding his long limbs into the tight gap where the main trunk branched out into two thick boughs. The dark fingers of the tree were all but naked in the winter, so Sam trusted to the cover of the trunk, and hoped Dean wouldn't look up until it was too late for him.

As expected, Dean was only five minutes behind him. Following the barely noticeable trail Sam had left behind in a way that spoke of just how well Dean knew him. It was impressive, Sam had to admit, and for the first time he found himself wondering if Dean had been in these woods before. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, and where everything was in relation to him.

Sam waiting until his brother passed below his hiding place before jumping out of the tree and tackling him to the ground. There was a brief struggle, in which Dean's instincts demanded a fight, and Sam happily obliged them, before the taller sibling managed to pin his brother face down in the mud.

With his wrist pinned up between his shoulder blades, Dean went still in acquiescence to Sam's victory. Shifting enough to allow Dean to roll onto his back, Sam grinned down at him.

"At least you're not drinking cocoa somewhere."

Dean's face was as muddy as Sam's- both purposely. The mud itched like a bitch when it dried, but provided excellent camouflage. White teeth made Dean's smile positively blinding against the filthy face.

"Dude, took you long enough. I should be in a bar right now."

"Oh no." Sam stood and offered a hand, which Dean took. "This is all on you, Dean. This was your idea. It would have been over long ago if you'd have played by the damned rules."

Dean had obviously carried a second flask, in case Sam ran out. He thrust the small flask into Sam's hand and fished a battered Snickers from his jacket pocket. Sam had not gone short of water, or sugar, but he knew better than to refuse the rations.

"I think you missed the point of the whole exercise."

"Which was?"

"Life doesn't play by the rules. You remember what dad always said, that marine motto, always cheat, always win. Only unfair fight is the one you lose."

"Dad also said that unless it's a .45 or over, it doesn't count." Sam reminded. "After shooting you."

"With a .22." Dean grinned fondly. "So it didn't count."

"That's kinda beside the point."

Dean shrugged.

"Whatcha gonna do about it? Besides, we're not finished yet. Hit the showers, and then we're going for a run."

Only Dean would want to run after a six-hour hunting exercise. And when Dean ran, he really ran. Five k minimum.

Sadistic. Fuck.

Still, Jess had been a runner. A damn good one. Sam had accompanied her every morning for close to a year, their own little ritual.

If his brother thought he was going to win this battle, then Sam would just have to follow orders.

Always cheat, always win.

Game on, big brother. Game fucking on.


End file.
